


everything you touch just feels like yours

by Transformatron



Series: Beauyasha Fic [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Squirting, Teasing, Useless Lesbians, Vaginal Fingering, no Beta we die like Mollymauk, rampant abuse of Beau's notebook, the lesbians are soft for each other y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29564277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transformatron/pseuds/Transformatron
Summary: Yasha teaches Beau a lesson. Or is it the other way around?Aka: Squirting 101 with Professor Nydoorin
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha
Series: Beauyasha Fic [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061897
Comments: 28
Kudos: 223





	everything you touch just feels like yours

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless filth. No plot here, folks.

Caleb is an awesome friend.

All the Nein know it, but the tower takes his love for them to a whole new level. It’s a sonnet to every battle they’ve faced together, spun up from the astral sea. Beautiful, vast, eerie; a reprieve from the dagger-sharp Eiselcross wind.

And in case that wasn't enough... Caleb has added extra soundproofing around Yasha’s room.

He hasn’t _said_ anything about it. But if she shuts her eyes and concentrates _,_ the chatter leaking from the dining hall above is noticeably fainter than it was last night.

Which – good. Considering Beau's latest request, that’s very good indeed.

_(She catches Yasha’s hand, drawing her away from the others, their hobnailed boots crunching over compacted snow._ _Her blue eyes are a saturation of the washed-out winter sky._ _They’re all Yasha can focus on, as Beau presses up on her tiptoes and whispers in her ear, behind the cup of one leather-gloved palm -)_

Yasha shivers. She turned in early, hoping Beau would follow. It’s been a while since they had the privacy to kiss, let alone _more_. Now she's restless, shifting, glitterdust under her skin. She’s been thinking about this _all fucking evening,_ and _c’mon,_ where the _fuck_ is Beau –

Tap-tap-tap. Three knocks. Not at her main door, which opens onto the central balcony, but the side entrance. That leads to a private spiral staircase, cantilevered, cast from marble panes thin as window glass. A staircase that connects Beau’s room to her own.

Because Caleb is a _really awesome friend._ It bears repeating.

Yasha spends a few stupid seconds fiddling with her hair (unruly as ever, after a day in the ice-laden wind). Then several _stupider_ ones trying to arrange her limbs in a cute way. How about this? Lounged on her side, one arm tucked under her head. That’s a sexy look, right?

“Hello?” she calls. Too high. She clears her throat, tries again. “Uhhh… come in?”

The door swings inwards. Beau saunters through. She looks cool as Caleb’s cats, from the thumbs tucked into her waistband to the loose, dark hair that tumbles over her tattooed shoulders. “Hey. Been waiting long?”

 _Forever._ “No! No-no-no-no-no. It’s fine, it’s great. I…” Her pose feels suddenly ridiculous. Yasha lurches to sit. The sheets drag in around her, a hundred creases converging like accusatory fingers, all pointing at how flushed she is, just from the thought of what’s to come. “I’m - I'm looking forward to this.”

Beau flashes a canine. “Me too.”

There’s an odd shape to her baggy trousers. One pocket looks too square. Has she brought a toy? Maybe she wants to slide it into Yasha while Yasha shows her how this is done, and _fuck,_ she’s so ready. Reaching for Beau as she approaches the bed, before she’s even toed off her boots.

Beau slips onto the mattress, barefoot. She catches Yasha’s outstretched hand, pressing lips to her cold-chapped knuckles. “So, teacher. Where do we begin?”

Right here, right now. Yasha drags her closer, one arm around her waist. Their teeth almost clonk when they kiss – Beau jerks back just in time. “Sorry, I – “

“Mm.” Beau leans in, slower. Taking the lead. This time it’s perfect: their mouths melt together, lashes fluttering shut. “Don’t be.”

Beau’s a jut. All interlocking angles, digging everywhere Yasha’s soft, right down to the nip she gives her striped lip. They kiss and they kiss. Beau fingercombs Yasha’s storm of curls. She tugs the tangles until her scalp cries out, while Yasha cups Beau’s skull, running her thumbs along the delicate curve of bone beneath the shaved velveteen sides. Tilting her _just right_ , so she can press her tongue against her lips, tease her open. Slip into Beau’s willing mouth.

She tastes her. Something a little salty, a little sweet. Sweat from where she’s been training, sugar from one of Jester’s pastries (must’ve scarfed it during post-workout munchies). Just… _Beau._

Piece by piece, they divest each other of clothing. Coats, chest wraps, the strip of cotton Beau wears under her trousers. No rush. Just hands stroking under fabric. Peeling back layer after layer until nothing lies between them but skin.

Only then does Yasha lower Beau, pinning her flat on the bed. She nips each small brown breast, rough as Beau likes it. Tracing trembly swirls over her hipbones. Kissing lower, lower, lower again –

Until a hand fists her hair.

“Whoa! Wait, wait.” 

Yasha freezes. “Are you okay?”

Beau nods. Her cheeks are rose-tinted, blood under bronze. Yet she tilts _away_ from Yasha, not closer. “Yasha. I said I wanted to learn how to squirt.”

Like Yasha could’ve forgotten. “Yes? Foreplay’s, uh, important, but if you don’t like – “

Beau scooches up the bed, shutting her legs. Her loose hair spools across the sheets like liquid shadow. “How am I supposed to learn anything if I’m cumming? Seriously. I’ll be of no use at all.”

"But it usually happens after you orgasm? Or during? I don’t think you can do it properly, without – “

“I gathered that much. My point…” There’s that crooked smirk. Beau places one hand at the centre of Yasha’s chest. She gives her _just_ a little push.

Yasha lets herself be moved. She backs off, resting on her heels. “Beau?”

Beau’s pupils eat the blue in her eyes. “You’re going to talk me through it. While I make you squirt." Then, with a shrug that could almost be mistaken for self-consciousness - "I learn better through hands-on experience.”

 _Oh._ That sounds like a good alternative. An amazing one, in fact. Yasha knots her fingers into the sheet. She wants to have Beau like that, arched and dripping, almost as much as she wants to feel it herself.

Still, she foresees one problem: “How do you expect me to keep talking?”

Beau grins. Every inch of her is as familiar to Yasha as her own form. More so, in fact. She’s licked it all, known it all, from the smoothness on the underside of Beau’s knees to those ticklish grooves between her ribs and the springy baby-hairs that cling to her nape, where she can't guide the razor alone. “We’ll figure that out as we go.”

Yasha sinks onto her back. “Sure? I mean, I’ll do my best.”

The mattress is stiff as the floorboards. It holds her weight, no give, as Beau prowls over her. “So.” Their lower bodies rest together, the curls between Beau’s legs tickling the lower plane of Yasha’s belly. “What do I do?”

“I – you have to get me… ready. Turned on, I mean.”

Beau brushes her hot cheek. “Think we’re halfway there.”

Yasha can’t deny it. She's a trained thing, a tamed thing. Yearning into every brush of Beau’s skin. “Yeah. But –“ She guides Beau’s hand down, not to the crux of her legs, but _b_ _eneath_. “It helps if you massage me a bit? There, all around. Builds – uh – builds up the bloodflow. Or something. I don’t know. Makes it better anyway, and… mm.”

It feels ridiculous, to narrate this out loud. That’s nothing compared to how _good_ it feels, as Beau obeys. She digs her hard fingertips into her thighs, then the pads of her thumbs. Swooping along interlocking curves of muscle. “Like that?”

“Y-yeah.” She doesn’t need to tell Beau to take her time. It’s a slow-building ooze of sensation. Beau kneads her, softening Yasha like dough. She focuses on one thigh, then the other. Inching closer to where she aches empty, where need pulses bright. She runs her nails up the tendon that binds Yasha’s leg to her pelvis, winding her tighter, tighter, until she’s panting in hungry little croons, then –

 _…_ draws away? 

“You can keep going – on my clit, now –“

“Wait a mo.”

Beau pulls back _._ No – she _can’t_. Not when she has Yasha squirming _._

Beau pays precisely zero heed to her growl. Yasha’s left grinding her teeth, twisting into the coverlets as Beau rifles her discarded trousers, pulling from her pocket –

What?

Yasha has to blink several times to ensure this isn’t some sort of sexual-frustration-induced hallucination. “Beau.”

“Yeah?”

“A _notebook?"_

Beau balances it on Yasha’s knee. The black-bound leather is supple from being opened and closed a dozen times per day. A graphite stick falls from the hollow in the spine. Beau catches it, grey smudging her hands. “You know me. I write _everything_ down.”

Oh, that smile is _way_ too innocent. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Yasha narrows her eyes – but only for a moment. She flumps back, legs falling further apart. “Jester will be proud.”

Beau swats her with the book. “Hey, _I_ keep my porn notes and my campaign notes separate.”

“...You mean you have _more_ porn notes?”

“Well, I’m starting a collection. Thanks for being my first entry.”

There’s an innuendo there ( _first entries;_ too easy). Yasha doesn’t voice it. Neither of them are each other’s first anything. In a way, that makes this all the more precious.

They’ve both seen so much of the world. Too much, really - they've been chewed up by it and spat unceremoniously out. To have found each other along the way, in those warm interstices between grief and violence, heartache and heartbreak… It means something. More than Yasha can put into words. Then again, she’s never been good at choosing the right ones.

Beau licks her thumb. Yasha tenses – but Beau only opens the notebook, leafing to a fresh page. She dashes out a methodology in neat, looping script.

Yasha thuds her head against the pillow. “ _Beau_ …”

“One sec – _aaaaand_ done.” Beau drops her pencil. Her smile’s all teeth. "Right. Where were we?”

“I – “

“Massage, plenty of foreplay… Breasts, too?”

Yasha’s gonna start fondling them herself, she swears. “Yeah – just really, uh. Get your partner going, before you start.”

“Like this?” Beau leans down. She mouths her nipple, soft and slick, nursing in slow pulls. Blue eyes burning into Yasha’s.

Ohhh, that’s it. Yasha pinches her other breast, tilting her head back. Panting at the dark, black bed canopy and the bare wood ceiling beyond. “Yes. Then – mm. Once they’re ready, just. Y’know. Get them off. Outside and in.”

“Get them off, huh? Just like that?” Another kiss of her areola, tongue curling under the stiffening bud. Then – at long fucking _last –_ Beau tucks her hand between Yasha’s legs.

It's perfect. She christens her clit with delicate circles, where every nerve in her body seems to connect. 

Yasha probably goes cross-eyed. Not her most attractive look. She doesn't care though, so long as Beau keeps _stroking_.

Her legs jolt, again and again. She feels each touch to her toes. “I – oh – “ She muffles herself, biting her arm. Remembers the soundproofing. Peels it away again, wet with her spit. “That’s it, that’s – “

“Awesome.” Beau turns back to her notebook. “Lemme just write that down…”

Yasha could _scream._ Seriously, the walls are thick enough. “ _Beau…_ ”

“Almost done.”

A faint breeze drifts from one cat-flap to another, licking her soaked heat. The burn inside her risks igniting the bed canopy. Yasha tightens her fists in the sheets. She hears the first _rrrip,_ as her nails gouge the cotton. She'd would squirm her thighs together, if Beau wasn’t knelt between them.

Fuck this. Yasha reaches down. Just one brush of herself - that's all she needs to keep her back flexed, her body open…

Beau catches her wrist without looking.

“Let me do it," she says, still writing. "Practical learner, remember?”

Yasha _whimpers._ She could break Beau’s grip. She knows it, Beau knows it, the whole fucking world knows. There’s nowhere to run from the truth: that she _could_ take this into her own hands, but despite the slick ache inside her, she doesn’t _want_ to.

Beau must see the moment she caves. She answers Yasha’s snarl, her slow, defeated slump, with a wink. Then drops her wrist and returns to her notebook. Nothing Yasha can do but shudder, hating the tease, loving it, submitting to it. Even with clenched jaw and a red tint to her eyes.

Beau crosses her last T. _Finally,_ she looks to Yasha. “Right. Next phase of the lesson. We're on clitoral stimulation, right?”

"I - yes - please, Beau, just - " _Touch me._

Beau does so. She sucks her fingers to soften the callouses, then goes for it. Light and fast, flicking diagonal across. Little sparks dart over Yasha's vision. 

She rocks. Juddering so hard she’s afraid for the bed legs. “Yes, _Beau_ – “

“Seems pretty effective." Barely a catch in Beau’s breath, but the blacks of her eyes betray her. Her pupils are _huge_ , like she’s swallowed a whole packet of suude. Lunar eclipses, coronas of blue - all from watching Yasha. That thought is amazing and breath-taking and still just a little unbelievable. “What next?”

Yasha can’t formulate words, thoughts, _anything_. She whines, pulsing into her own wetness. Black stars flower over her vision, unfurling to Beau’s touch. She knows what she needs - she just can’t find any space between gasps to _tell_ her.

Easier to demonstrate. Yasha reaches under Beau's hand. She parts her slick lips, bucking up. Begging with her eyes.

“Inside?”

Yasha nods until she’s dizzy from it.

Beau doesn’t keep her waiting. Not this time. She slips two fingers deep.

No resistance. Yasha’s plush, _throbbing_ for it. Especially when Beau hooks, probing the spongey swell on her frontal wall.

“Oh – Beau, Beau, _Beau…”_ Like she’s composing poetry. This is all she knows: the squelch of Beau’s knuckles against her folds. The gloss of candlelight over Beau's skin, anointing her in amber. The warmth of her descending breath. Beau sinks down her body. Past Yasha’s ribs, her navel, the groove between her lowest abdominal muscles that points to…

 _Gods_.

How she kisses her: satin-smooth and slow.

Beau adds another finger, three inside while she tickles Yasha with her tongue. She curls come-hither into her softness, again and again and _again,_ until Yasha presses up off the mattress. Chest heaving, every breath a whine. Eyes scrunched shut, tight as each wring of her body on Beau’s hand. Pleasure melts through her, threatening to overflow –

 _Scritch-scritch-scritch._ No mistaking that sound. The scrawl of a graphite stick over parchment.

Yasha crunches up. She stares at the notebook, open between her trembling thighs (which really doesn't seem like the _safest_ place, right now). And at Beau. Who scribbles away, only lifting her face from between Yasha’s legs long enough to ensure the letters form straight lines.

Still fucking Yasha on her fingers.

"I’m ambidextrous,” she says, real casual. “And _very_ good at multitasking.”

To prove the point, she fastens her lips on Yasha’s clit. It’s that which tips her over - Beau’s final, sultry glance up her body. The return of her tongue, fluttering like she’ll set her alight.

Yasha locks up. Clenching in rhythmic bursts. Eyes rolled back, nothing in her head but _fuck_ and _yes_ and _Beau._

 _Don’t stop,_ she wants to say, _don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop –_

Beau must know. She _strums_ her on her tongue, plays her like she’s composing music. Yasha certainly cries out loud enough. She writhes, lost to the white-hot cascade, as Beau draws back from her twitching, tormented clit, but just _keeps curling_ against that tender place inside. 

It’s coming. It’s _coming._ She can feel it rising, the high of her orgasm still rattling her bones –

“ _Beau…”_

“Good girl. Here we go.”

Beau lays her other palm flat on her abdomen. She pushes _down._

Her eyes lock on Yasha, calculating and caring in equal measure. One hand on her belly, the other inside. The pressure builds and builds and –

“Go on, angel. Give it to me.”

One more mutual press: held firm above, fucked soft below. Yasha _pulses._ Contracting in time with her rippling peak. Can’t hold it back anymore.

She bursts. Gushing out a scalding torrent. Sobbing as it spatters her thighs.

Must’ve caught Beau – Yasha hears her grunt. She opens her mouth to apologise – but the _sorry_ gets stuck.

Her head throbs like she’s underwater. Beau keeps digging into her, milking her cunt. Pressing and pressing until she’s soaked and spent. Painted, panting, _dripping_ with her own release. Sagging down to rest on the linens.

The _saturated_ linens.

…Lovely.

Beau’s blurry shape swims into view. She solidifies for each of Yasha’s dazed blinks: knelt above her, licking rivulets off her chin. Her fingers twitch, still buried. 

“Huh," she says, distantly. "That was hot.”

Very hot. And kinda… messy.

Yasha unpeels the wet sheet from her arse. Her hands are shaking. “We, uh, probably should’ve put a towel down.”

“You have a bathtub, I have blankets. We’ll work something out.”

Yasha likes that logic. Soggy bedding doesn’t make for the comfiest experience, but she’s dealt with worse. And frankly, she’s too limp to care. This is the part she loves - that fuzzy feeling that nuzzles every inch after Beau opens her up, makes her _hers._ Like she's loved again. Like she's safe. “Mm. Might have to wait a bit. Not sure I can walk.”

Beau pulls out, extra slow. She makes this show of sucking off her fingers. “Not bad then? For a training session?”

Yasha hums. Yeah, it was fun. Yeah, it turned her ankles and her mind to jelly, along with every bit centred roughly between. But something twists a screw into her mind. A part of this scene that doesn't quite fit...

_Beau bent over her, blown pupils and hungering smirk._

_Pressing on her belly, grinding into her so precisely._

_That curling internal scrape –_

Yasha’s no investigator. No expositor of the Cobalt Soul. Yet still, every now and then, she pieces things together.

“You know how to make girls squirt, don’t you? You knew all along.”

“Eh.” Beau shrugs. “I might’ve read up on the theory.”

 _Theory,_ Yasha’s arse.

She gives Beau no warning. Just _pounces._

The sheets cling - Yasha _really_ needs that bath. Still, though Beau’s made her soak the bed and replaced all her muscles with porridge, Yasha manages to grab the notebook. For the interested: it's only suffered a _little_ moisture-damage around the edges.

Yasha scoots out the wet patch. She holds the notebook up, out of Beau’s reach, as she claws for it (“Yashaaaaaaaaaaaa…”). Tipping her head back to read it upside down.

Only… She can’t.

No words intersperse the long spiel of nonsense coating this page. Only random shapes: circles, curlicues, the occasional ellipsis. All are packed between the lines, dense as handwriting yet so very far from it.

Yasha gnaws her lip. “Tell me this isn’t a Nonagon thing?”

“What? No.” Beau quits trying to yank the book away. She slinks onto Yasha’s lap instead. “I just – uh. You were very distracting.”

Huh. Somehow, imagining that - Beau scrawling random shapes, barely able to keep her hands steady, forcing herself to breathe slow to maintain her semblance of control... It's hot as the join of their bodies, where Beau straddles one of Yasha's thighs.

A dark lock of hair dangles over her face. Yasha tucks it behind Beau's ear, freeing it when it snags the jade tusk. They’re bare together, skin tacking. Warm and damp, not just from sweat. Yasha thinks she might taste herself when she kisses Beau, salt clinging to her thin lips. “Distracting? I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Yeah, well.” Beau’s tense. Here for the sex, cringing from the intimacy, as always. She sinks against her so beautifully though, when Yasha drops the notepad and folds both arms around her. Chest flush to Yasha’s, cheek tucked against her neck. “You’re just. Very _you,_ y’know.”

“I hope so. I wouldn’t want to be anyone else.” Or anyone else’s.

“I - uh. Yeah. I wouldn’t want you to be anyone else, either."

Yasha hides her smile in Beau’s hair. This thing they share is so simple and small, compared to everything going on around them (the race to prevent the Sum Novum's return; the end of the world if they fail). But right now, it's all that matters.

“Anyway!” Beau really _is_ flushing now. So much that the heat of it tickles Yasha’s throat. “We should, like, repeat this practical. Several times. With no prompting from you, yeah? Just to make sure it’s all sunk in.”

Yasha can’t stop smiling. She blames the orgasm. “That sounds _wonderful_.”

“Then let’s get started. Think you can carry me to the bath?”

For another orgasm like that, even Yasha’s rubbery legs can be convinced. When she draws back Beau shoots her another smile: smaller, shyer, sweeter. Yasha wants to chase it into her mouth. She scoops her up instead – tossing her over one shoulder, just to hear her squeal of a laugh – before wobbling to her unsteady feet. The notebook is left open, drying pages crinkled at the edges, amidst the wreckage of her sheets.

Thank Kord the tiled room with the four-clawed bathtub opens directly onto her bedroom. Caleb really is the world’s best friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Unedited as always - I might look over this in the morning. I haven't seen the latest episode yet (no spoilers, thank you!) But I hear we finally get our date and I wanted to celebrate. Please leave kudos/comments, if you enjoyed!


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